Krishna and the Peacock Feather

Every evening, when the sun went low and orange over the river, Krishna sat down on his favourite rock and played his flute. He did not play it for anybody. He played it because the evening was there, and the water was there, and the flute was in his hands. But the river slowed down to listen. And the cows stopped chewing. And the whole wood went quiet.

One evening, something moved in the trees. Out came a peacock. Then another. Then another — stepping very carefully through the grass, the way peacocks do, as though the ground might be wet. They did not come close. They stood at the edge of the trees with their heads tilted, and they listened.

Then the biggest peacock did something nobody expected. He opened his tail. All at once it went up behind him like a great blue-green fan, hundreds of eyes shining in the last of the sun — and he began to dance. Around and around, up on his toes, turning in the grass in time with the music. Krishna laughed and kept playing, and the peacock kept dancing, until the sun was nearly gone.

When the last note faded, the peacock stopped. He walked over to the rock, and he lowered his head, and he let one single long feather fall onto the grass at Krishna's feet. Then he stepped back. He did not want anything. It was a thank-you, that was all — for the music.

Krishna picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was blue and green and gold all at once. He did not put it in a box. He tucked it straight into his hair, where everyone could see it. And he has worn it ever since. Look at any picture of him — in this book, in a temple, anywhere at all — and there it is, that one feather, still saying thank you.